


Chessmaster

by ossapher



Category: American Revolution RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 11:55:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4520991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ossapher/pseuds/ossapher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Laurens' pyrrhic victory in a game of chess against his fellow aide-de-camp, Alexander Hamilton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chessmaster

Perhaps if he ignores Hamilton for long enough the man will stop leaning on his desk and leave him in peace. Laurens has only been Washington’s aide-de-camp for a week, but already he knows that Hamilton has the truly obnoxious tendency to be twice as fast as everyone else, and in any case he has trouble written in his smile.

“Up for a round of chess later?”

Laurens’ first impulse is to say no, yet it would not do to brush off this clear overture of friendship. There is something slightly too questing, eager, hot about Hamilton—it puts John on edge in a way he cannot explain, makes him sit with military straightness, avoid eye contact, analyze Hamilton’s every word, gesture, look. Some instinct tells him that his friendship would be dangerous: doubly so, for if Hamilton is actively seeking him out, he must want him for something.

And it seems that something, for the moment, is chess.  “Yes,” Laurens says (damning himself and damning those clear blue eyes), “I can meet as soon as I am done with this dispatch. It is my last for the day.”

“Splendid,” Hamilton says, and turns on his heel. John notes, as he has been noting involuntarily every day since he arrived, the elegant, almost feline way he carries himself. He does not allow himself to wonder whither the man’s romantic tastes run; he vowed to leave that side of himself in Geneva, and so it cannot be anything like his business to know. It is purely an academic curiosity, a desire to know if his ability to detect those of his own kind—that is, of his _previous_ kind—is still as sensitive as it once was. He returns to his dispatch, still turning the question over in the back of his mind. Camp rumor already has it that Hamilton is an inveterate flirt; at issue is whether this tendency extends to men as well as women. _I will see what he wants_ , he tells himself. _It may be nothing, but I must stay on my guard._

Laurens frowns; the last word he wrote has carried straight off the page and onto the one underneath. Scowling, he strikes the offender out and begins again on a new line.

A snort from across the room; Tench Tilghman is watching him. “Are you jealous of him, Laurens?”

Laurens sighs. “I’m not.”

"Of course. That’s why you’re glaring at your desk like it’s offered you insult.” Tilghman rises, finished for the day. “Think about it this way: the more work he gets done, the less we have to do.”

“I’m not jealous,” Laurens repeats; Tilghman waves a hand in dismissal as he walks out. But he isn’t jealous, not at all. It’s just that Hamilton is like a piece of grit in his eye, always robbing a little of his concentration, maddening, impossible to get out of his head.

When he at last completes the dispatch, he straightens his coat, smooths down his hair, and goes out in search of Hamilton. The sun is setting, yellow light raying in between the trees, picking out blades of grass. He takes a blessed moment to relax; after a long day in a ladderback chair, the freedom to stretch his limbs is a relief.

“Laurens, there you are,” says Hamilton, and Laurens jumps. “Oh, I apologize for startling you. I was just going to say that I have set up the chess pieces, if you still—“

“Yes, yes, by all means,” says Laurens hurriedly, following Hamilton over to the great shade-tree on the edge of camp; he does not wish to give offense. The light makes Hamilton’s hair look even fierier, emphasizes the contours of his face. Laurens cannot stifle the thought that this would be a good light to paint the man in—not one of those fussy drawing-room portraits, but maybe a study for a history painting, something properly dramatic, or even a battle scene… “Have you seen combat yet, sir?”

“I had the honor to serve as an artillery captain during our retreat from New York,” Hamilton answers, seemingly unruffled by the abrupt lurch in subject. With an easy smile, he gestures at the blanket he has spread across the grass. “Make yourself comfortable.”

The words have the opposite of their intended effect; Laurens is instantly back on his guard. He nods curtly, sits stiffly. Hamilton looks momentarily perplexed, a small furrow appearing between his eyebrows, but he valiantly makes small talk about the New York artillery during the opening movements of the pawns until Laurens unbends enough to reply.  Hamilton has a kind of airy natural charm that is easy to be swept up in.

A pattern takes shape; a few lines of awkward probing to get to a subject: Hamilton will make a joke, Laurens will laugh and offer some elaboration, or perhaps an anecdote, this will remind Hamilton of something he read, the conversation wanders, expands; they forget they are playing chess, the both of them utterly caught up; the chessmen stand neglected; abruptly Laurens recollects himself, cuts off the conversation, makes his move or reminds Hamilton to make his. Hamilton is trying to charm him, for reasons he cannot understand, but he will resist. Silence for a period of minutes. Then perhaps Laurens, feeling guilty at his failure of conviviality, offers an apologetic attempt at starting another line of discussion, or Hamilton gathers his disappointed hopes and makes another sally.

The sun droops towards the horizon, disappears below it. Their light begins to fail, but by unspoken agreement they keep playing.

In one of their long silences (guilty for Laurens; confused, almost indignant on Hamilton’s), Laurens castles on the queen side, Hamilton on the king side, and the slaughter of the pawns begins. In the next, Laurens gets a knight behind Hamilton’s line and begins to wreak systematic havoc. A rook finally brings it down—a major mistake—and Laurens takes the rook with his queen, putting Hamilton in check. Hamilton’s next move gets him out of check, but now Laurens has a solid command of the middle of the board.

Hamilton’s eyes widen as he contemplates his next move; he understands the game well enough to know he is in trouble. He takes John’s dead knight, the one whose pyrrhic capture got him into his present mess, and taps it against his lower lip. His eyes dart around the board, sometimes settling on one piece for a minute at a time, sometimes scanning rows and columns for lines of control. At one point they come up to meet Laurens’, something almost sheepish amidst all the blue, set above an apologetic half-smile. “I’m afraid I haven’t given you as good a game as you might have liked.”

Laurens laughs. “If this is your idea of a bad showing I’d hate to see a good one. In any case, you still have a chance.”

“You can mate me in two moves,” Hamilton points out.

Laurens turns to the board, startled. “Goodness, can I?”

“Oh, Lord, I shouldn’t have spoken,” Hamilton laughs, passing a hand down over his face, and in a flash John realizes that this is not Hamilton _trying to be charming_ , this is Hamilton as he is: enchanted and enchanting. On the tails of the epiphany that he has misjudged Hamilton comes an unflattering corollary about himself: his deliberately-cultivated dislike of the man was a reaction to something not in Hamilton, but in himself. All night has not allowed himself to relax around Hamilton because he has feared that aesthetic fascination will transform into genuine attraction. Clearly this fear was well-founded, since despite his every attempt to withdraw he has found himself reeled back in time and time again. There is no point in denying it to himself anymore. All he can do is contain the damage, make sure the inevitable harm touches only himself and not the innocent, unaware Hamilton.

A moment’s contemplation of the board shows him the combination of moves that would deal the death blow. “I cannot do it,” he says, mouth dry. “It would be dishonorable to take advantage.”

“Oh, don’t be such a girl,” Hamilton says, playfully shoving Laurens’ shoulder. “At least have the decency to finish me off instead of making me forfeit.”

Shamefaced, Laurens nods. After it is done, Hamilton extends a hand, cheerful even in defeat. “Congratulations, sir. The victory is yours.”

Laurens shakes his hand, hyperaware now of his every movement, second-guessing everything from the strength of his grip to the length of time he dares meet Hamilton’s eyes. Still, as Hamilton packs up the pieces and turns back to camp Laurens is acutely aware that he has been an awful conversation partner, that Hamilton will think he dislikes him, and he cannot allow the man to continue with such an impression.

“Hamilton, wait,” he calls, and the other aide turns back to face him. “Good game. No, I mean it. Er. Listen. I enjoyed myself tonight. Perhaps, if you’d like to play again sometime…”

Hamilton’s eyes light up, and before he even speaks Laurens knows he will say yes. Warmth drops down into Laurens’ stomach and he thinks, _Lord, I am playing the wrong game._


End file.
